


Where is my mind

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Comfort, Cuddling, Drinking, Friendship, Insomnia, Platonic Cuddling, Sleepovers, insufferable fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine is thin and her limbs get through the way, making things uncomfortable. Courfeyrac might sleep like the dead, but Jehan can't stop trailing circles on your arms with his fingertips all night, as if you are three years old. Combeferre is soft and comforting and he smells of soap, but he makes you feel guilty. Joly... well, let's just make clear that sleeping in Joly's when you have a cold is not generally considered to be a very good idea.<br/>And then, a group sleepover comes, and you find yourself unable to believe whose breath is that on the back of your neck.</p><p>Kink meme fill:<br/>Sometimes Grantaire just can't sleep alone. Eventually, instead of accepting the insomnia, he goes and finds someone to curl up with.<br/>After the first time, with a very confused Courfeyrac - who slept like the dead and hadn't heard R come in - they get into the habit of leaving their bedroom doors unlocked, just in case.<br/>Bonus points if the growing intimacy leads to one of the others seeking him out because it's cold or they're upset or something, and R just ends up being the group teddy bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Limbs and bones

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme fill:  
> Sometimes Grantaire just can't sleep alone. Eventually, instead of accepting the insomnia, he goes and finds someone to curl up with.  
> After the first time, with a very confused Courfeyrac - who slept like the dead and hadn't heard R come in - they get into the habit of leaving their bedroom doors unlocked, just in case.  
> Bonus points if the growing intimacy leads to one of the others seeking him out because it's cold or they're upset or something, and R just ends up being the group teddy bear.
> 
> WARNINGS: insomnia, drinking, mild depression, mentions of vomitting, cuddles, more cuddles, platonic cuddles, insufferable fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Éponine it's full of limbs. But he manages to fall asleep, nevertheless. And that’s enough for a while.

When he stumbles in Éponine’s flat he’s already drunk. She opens the door, rubbing her eyes, wearing a huge t-shirt that reaches her thighs, her dark hair frizzy and tangled. “Hey,” she groans, “have you bothered to look at the fuckin’ time?”

 

Grantaire makes his way in the apartment. “Not really,” he replies hoarsely.

 

“Well, know that it’s 2AM. And some of us have work in the morning.” She drags her feet in the apartment and Grantaire follows, shutting the door behind him. “Be quiet, it’s only been a while since I managed to put Gavroche to bed.”

 

“What did you do this time? Did you drug him?”

 

“Yep. Marshmallow overdose.” They end up in the living room, which is messy as always.

 

“Where is my booze?” he asks childishly and rather sleepily, though they both know that now that he has started drinking, he will be restless until he’s so drunk to not be able to stand anymore.

 

She throws him a bottle of beer and they both collapse on the couch, her feet on his lap. She has brought some chocolate from the kitchen and is already occupied consuming it in a rather inelegant way. “Is there any particular reason to explain the honour of your visit?”

 

He raises his shoulders, taking a sip from the bottle. “Of course there is. A particularly important one, in fact.”

 

“Weep about our pathetic love lives, or rather lack of, and doze off after getting pissed drunk, because you can’t sleep again?”

 

He offers her a faint, bitter smile. “You know me quite well, I daresay.”

 

They remain silent for a while. He hums The Beatles’ _Roll Over Beethoven_ , until she decides she wants some beer and she has to fight to get the bottle. They end up with his wrists pinned down on the couch and her thighs pressed on his chest. She is stronger than he is, especially when he’s drunk. Grantaire snorts. “We would make a rather cute cliché teenage movie scene like that.”

 

She grabs the bottle with the beer in her hand and brings it to her lips. “We’ll end up old and miserable anyway, probably with the company of eleven cats. We could at least get married and pet them together. I mean look at us, nothing better for us to do.”

 

Grantaire chuckles. “The cats would run away, love. It’s only self defense. I don’t think we’d make appropriate parents even to them. We’d doze off on them and smash ‘em. After watching porn. Not to mention we’d have different _taste_ in porn in first place.”

 

“Don’t question my mothering abilities,” he receives a punch on his shoulder, “Gavroche respects me enough to even make puppy eyes when he knows he’s eaten my own last slice of pizza. And he’s _Gavroche._ He’s never scared or ashamed. He mostly finds amusement in scaring or shaming other people.”

 

Grantaire feels softened at this. Gavroche is indeed very scary even though they are on very good terms together, and Éponine is doing a tremendous job in taking care of her brother when she’s barely twenty. “Come here,” he says, and she snuggles closer to him as he throws an arm around her. “I know,” he says. “have you got any news from him?”

 

She stiffens in his arms. “What kind of news are you expecting? He has a date tonight.”

 

“With Cosette?”

 

“Who else? Bahorel? Now _that_ would be something I’d like to witness.” she shrugs. “They’re probably on a bench, staring in the depth of their souls in each other’s eyes or something equally ridiculous. At least I can be sure they’re not having wild sex in a motel.”

 

Grantaire shivers. “Now I have a mental picture of Pontmercy having sex. I think I’m scarred for life. Thank you, ‘Ponine.”

 

She chuckles bitterly. “And you?”

 

He turns his head and shoots her a painful look. His eyes are dry and his thin lips pressed together. “He kicked me out of the café yesterday.”

 

“Did you piss him off again?”

 

“More than I should have.”

 

“He has no clue, has he?”

 

Grantaire chuckles under his breath. “He’s Enjolras. He probably still thinks babies are brought by the stork.”

 

“You know he doesn’t.”

 

“True. He doesn’t. But Apollo has no time for my lonely soul. It’s only pamphlets and Rousseau’s portrait he can stare orgasmically at. Not that he’d care if he _had_ time for romance, of course. I have a talent of making me hate me.”

 

“It’s easy for someone to hate you.”

 

“Why thank you!”

 

“Your drunken ramblings can be quite adorable though.”

 

“We could indeed get married though and have a lovely miserable life of whining and cheap takeaway and drinking our livers to death, if I wasn’t a cynic who didn’t exactly believe in matrimony,” sighs Grantaire.

 

It doesn’t take long before they’re both too sleepy to keep their eyes open.

 

Those miserable evenings of melting on the sofa with Éponine are a very pleasant change to his repeated nights of insomnia, which make him often wonder whether he suffers from bipolar syndrome and les Amis are his own Fight Club he has produced with his twisted mind, apart from being only drunk and pathetic. Then he decides to ask if that’s true, but first rule about Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club.

 

Heads are throbbing and eyes are heavy, they feel less lonely that way, more pathetic but less, less lonely. They end up sleeping on the couch, Éponine spooning him. It’s her who snores usually, though occasionally he will as well. It is always uncomfortable for the both of them, as they are skinny and knees and limbs are getting on the way, bones uncomfortable against sore muscles. But they can both sleep quite calmly together. They smell of beer and cheep deodorant and cigarettes and chocolate, and it’s nice. She’s like the little sister he’s never had, and he’s the guide she always lacked. The oddest guide she could have asked for. They always are like two orphans finding comfort in each other’s warmth, in the same position they fell asleep in every time when Gavroche finds them in the morning and jumps on them with an Indian cry. They always have such a horrible headache that they can’t even get startled. It’s usually Éponine who chases Gavroche around the house after that, and he always shouts that it would be cool if she started dating Grantaire.

 

The nights he spends with Éponine are full of limbs. But he manages to fall asleep, nevertheless. And that’s enough for a while.


	2. Fingertips and Wandering Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Courfeyrac and Jehan it's peace and insanity at the same time, but he manages to sleep, and that's enough for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooooo much for reading this, it makes me so happy as if all les Amis decided they were up for some cuddling with my lonely soul!

He hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep for almost a week, and by decent night’s sleep, Grantaire means six hours or so. He hasn’t managed to have even that and he feels completely desperate, as everything seems horrible when awake for so long. Grantaire had never been a man to worship a good night’s sleep, but it wasn’t rare for him to wish he could doze off in order to not have to deal with everything in his weary head. And now, that he is left alone with his drinking, and therefore with his demons, weaknesses and hopes, everything has suddenly started looking even worse. If he knew how to give a proper punch without having to end up in hospital with a guilty Bahorel apologizing, then he’d be sure that he was Jack’s Broken Heart (which he most definitely would be, concerning his luck in that field), or Jack’s Inflamed Sense of Rejection, or Jack’s Raging Bile Duct, or Jack’s Polka Dot Orange Penis or any kind of bipolar shit like that.

 

He has tried to drink himself to death, or at least to oblivion, hoping it will help him fall asleep, as it always did in the past, but instead he remains in his bed, with a horrible headache, a disgusting taste in his mouth and a feeling of misery, staring at the dark ceiling without really looking.

 

It is Monday night when he gets up, barefoot, dark circles under his eyes and severely knotted hair, and walks in the dark corridor, destined to Courfeyrac’s room. He can’t think clearly, he is way too tired and drunk for that to be possible, and the idea of crashing on someone else’s bed, even when that someone cannot be Enjolras –Grantaire wouldn’t even dare dream of such a possibility, he wouldn’t even dare dream of the way the revolutionary man would breathe when asleep, or the way he’d smell or the position he’d chose, or worse what he’d sleep in… for such thoughts might only be proven to be disastrous- or Éponine, as he knows she’s hanging out with Montparnasse tonight, in a pathetic attempt to forget about Pontmercy, much to his disapproval, seems much less infuriating than the thought of him remaining alone in his bed, waiting for Morpheus to remember his lonely filthy soul.

 

He enters Courfeyrac’s dorm carefully. The door is unlocked and on his friend’s bed Jehan is sleeping as well. Of course. The moonlight which enters through the window makes everything slightly visible. Courfeyrac is lying on his back, arms spread and taking half of the bed space, mouth opened and it’s a wonder he’s not drooling. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers with the racoon print and Grantaire can’t help snorting at the idea of how gorgeous Courfeyrac thinks he might be. Courfeyrac sleeps like the dead. If Grantaire was in the mood for a good prank, it most definitely would be entirely too successful.

 

Jehan is lying on his belly, an arm around his boyfriend’s bare chest protectively. His auburn shoulder length hair which is usually pulled on a low ponytail, mostly for convenience issues, making him look like a nineteenth century poet, is now loose and spread on the pillow. He looks like an angel, in his huge creamy sweater and a pair of flannel ditsy pajama bottoms.

 

As much as Grantaire hates to break the peace, -well, he _doesn’t_ -, he allows his body to collapse on the bed, between the two lovers, becoming the perfect alcohol stinky cockblock anyone would fear of.

 

Courfeyrac remains motionless, his mouth hanging open, even at the tremendous shake of the bed. Jehan stirs and lets a small whimper when his sleep is interrupted. He opens an eye and pulls his arm under Grantaire’s weight. “R, is that you?” he asks in a sleepy, hoarse voice, quiet enough to not wake Courfeyrac, who wouldn’t wake even if Enjolras decided to run a rally in their very dorm, in revolutionary red pajamas.

 

“Yeah, good to see you,” groans Grantaire as silently as he can, “you could make your lovey dove wear something a little more decent the next time my darling head decides to give me insomnia.”

 

As much shy as Jean Prouvaire might be, he feels at ease with all of his friends and he wants to help Grantaire. Thankfully the double bed which is made by two single ones pushed next to each other is big enough for the three of them. “You still can’t sleep?” he whispers sympathetically. Grantaire just groans drunkenly. “Don’t worry,” Prouvaire’s voice is soothing, “you can stay here. Do you think some hot tea would help?”

“Yeah, a dose of caffeine would _definitely_ help me go to sleep,” Grantaire’s voice is sarcastic as always.

 

Prouvaire lets a quiet chuckle and he looks ready to drift to sleep again. He throws an arm over Grantaire’s body to reach for Courfeyrac, and his other hand rests on Grantaire’s arm. It is typical for Prouvaire’s fingertips to trail absent minded circles on other people’s skin, sending them goosebumps. He does that to Courfeyrac every time after they make love, and they soon fall asleep after that. Now he does that to the both of them, and as much ridiculous as this might seem to Grantaire, he finds himself sighing in pleasure. The hair on the back of his neck stand up, he feels more relaxed than ever, his eyes close and he smiles at the sensation. Jehan smells faintly of flowers and old paper, Courfeyrac smells of expensive cologne and Grantaire tries not to make contact with his naked body, but in vain, as the man, still asleep, turns on his back and throws an arm around him affectionately, probably dreaming of his spicy moments with Prouvaire; the mental image makes Grantaire want to go and poke his eyes out.

 

Jehan’s peaceful, steady breathing is brushing on Grantaire’s shoulder shortly after, as he’s fallen asleep, but even then, his fingers don’t stop stroking the others’ arms mechanically. Eventually, Grantaire’s eyes grow heavy and his head light, the warmth of the bodies pressed on his own serves comfortingly, the feeling of drifting into unconsciousness that is not caused by shocking amounts of alcohol in his veins is relieving in a precious way, and he allows sleep to take over his body…

 

Until he is thrown up in the air by someone who has attacked him, arms around his hips, and he screams, throwing a startled Jehan up as well. Courfeyrac, who had attacked him in his sleep, always horny as a thirteen year old, searching for Prouvaire’s flannel pajamas and instead finding Grantaire’s old patched sweatpants, is startled by the scream as well, and not conscious yet, slaps Grantaire in the face. The unfortunate, pissed off man tries to escape from this travesty but it is entirely too difficult with his legs tangled in the sheets, and instead he returns the slap to Courfeyrac, who finally wakes up.

 

“What the fuck?” he groans, rubbing his cheek. He notices Grantaire, “Hey, dude, what’s going on here?” he asks with a teasing smile, offering a wink, “did my irresistible charms make you suffer so much that you decided to join the fun? Jehan and I are always up for new things, aren’t we, lover boy?”

 

Grantaire most definitely didn’t want to know anymore of Courfeyrac’s nicknames for the poet, which most definitely contained ditsy bum or tea kettle or something equally vomitable, or witness anymore of the latter’s severe blushing, or learn anymore about the sexual life of those two. He takes a pillow and pushes it on Courfeyrac’s face, to prevent him from talking, but they can still hear the muffled mumbling underneath.

 

Grantaire then picks his own pillow and lies horizontically, where their feet are. “You two are impossible. I’m done. And if your feet instead of your hands seek any access for my glorious ass this time, you’re up for some serious trouble,” he growls to a laughing Courfeyrac.

 

Prouvaire’s fingertips find their routine on Courfeyrac’s arm and Grantaire is certain that the pleased soft moans and giggles shall haunt his nightmares for a lifetime. But his head rests on Jehan’s knees, and after they all become a mass of arms and locks of hair, he starts snoring.

 

With Courfeyrac and Jehan it’s fingertips and wandering hands, it’s peace and insanity at the same time. But he manages to sleep, and that’s enough for the time being.

 

 


	3. Hissing cats, burnt pancakes and sneezes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nights he spends with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are full of thermometers, hysterical screams, fights, burnt pancakes and hissing cats. But they are warm as well, and there is medication to help him fall sleep. And that’s enough for now.

His head is pounding like one of Enjolras’ rallies is taking place on it, and the most unfair of all things is that, for a change, he hasn’t had anything to drink all day. He wishes he could deny and ignore the fact like Enjolras would stubbornly do, but he’s no Enjolras: he has caught the most annoying cold. He’s not dying, that’s for sure, but his throat is sore and his nose is running but he’s too lazy to get up and renew his tissue supplies, therefore he remains miserable in his bed, in the dark room.

 

No position is comfortable. He turns and spins in his bed, he curses loudly and tries to fix his pillow in order to raise his head higher and be able to breathe. It’s impossible. He can’t believe that just after managing to start falling asleep again the last days, he had to catch a fuckin’ _cold_ of all things.

 

Eventually, he accepts the fact that under no circumstances will he fall asleep. His migraine is too painful for him to be able to concentrate on reading a book, or painting, or watching TV, and for once in his life, he can’t even dream of drinking. The problem is that he is insufferably bored, and he hates it.

 

He stands up on his bed and snorts through his congested nose. It’s impossible to go on like that. He needs to take something which will help him breathe again, and the only one who’d have a massive supply of medicine, is Joly. He decides to pay his friend a visit.

 

Joly and Bossuet’s dorm door is unlocked. Grantaire has heard a rumor that they all leave it that way for him to seek comfort for his insomnia, but he can just snort at it.

 

His eyes firstly fall on the orange sleeping cat in the corner of the room. He then sees Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, tangled up in bed, or rather he sees Bossuet crashed under Musichetta’s weight, and Joly wrapped like a caterpillar in the blanket he obviously has stolen from them. Bossuet is snoring loudly, causing Musichetta to occasionally nudge him in the ribs. The bed they share is made from three single beds, it looks so huge and welcoming to exhausted Grantaire, and eventually all he does, before being able to control himself, is to crawl on it, between Joly and Musichetta, and try to keep warm, pulling his knees to his chest.

 

Musichetta, as well as Bossuet underneath her, welcome the newcoming bodyheat added to their own, and snuggle closer to him without waking up. Joly however, is the one who always sleeps very lightly, and he almost jumps up, startled, thankfully without waking the other two. He recognizes Grantaire in the faint moonlight, a hand clutching on his chest. “What are you doing here? You almost gave me a heart attack!” he hisses.

 

“Well I’m sorry, Joly, killing you most definitely wasn’t part of my intentions."

 

Joly seems to remember what his other friends have told him. He rubs his eyes, still looking sleepy. “Do you still have insomnia?” he asks, pitifully.

 

Before Grantaire is able to reply, a loud sneeze cuts him off, causing Joly to jump up from bed, the blanket still wrapped around him, staring at Grantaire horrified. “Are you _ill_? And you felt like sharing it? Didn’t you think of poor Bossuet who is so vulnerable to germs?”

 

Grantaire steps of the bed and throws his arms around Joly, trying to place sloppy kisses on his cheeks. “It's you who my germs feel particularly attracted to, my dear Joly!”

 

The medical student pushes the sober man who acts like he’s drunk away and back on the bed, making a disgusted face. A fascinated look, however, gives its turn at his terrified one, as the doctor attitude overcomes the hypochondriac one. That very look convinces Grantaire that his idea was such a horrible mistake, and he is confirmed when Joly presses a hand on his forehead. He flinches at the warmth Grantaire hadn’t realized in his body. “But you have a fever,” he says worriedly, “that most definitely is more than a simple cold. Oh dear…” their muffled conversation clearly annoys Musichetta and Bossuet in their sleep, the latter lets a small whimper and they both stir, but none of them wakes up.

 

“Joly,” Grantaire places a hand on his friend’s arm. “I’m alright, really. It’s a very slight fever; I just need something for my nose…”

 

Joly is already hyperventilating, running around in his boxers and t-shirt, opening cupboards and drawers, waking the cat which meows menacingly, and the noise eventually wakes Musichetta up. She rubs her eyes and moans softly, while Joly sticks a thermometer in a pissed off Grantaire’s mouth.

 

“What happened, Joly?” she groans, “are you dying again?”

 

Grantaire turns his head and faces Musichetta, who is lying in bed, her curly hair messy from sleep, one eye barely open. “’tis me. I ‘ave a co’d,” he shrugs his shoulders apologetically, the thermometer still in his mouth, “I di’n’t know I’m dying but appa’ent’y I am.”

 

Musichetta nods understandingly. “Good luck with that,” she says sleepily, “you can stay here, try not to drive him to madness, though I’m sure he’ll drive you first.” Grantaire feels amused at the easiness in which Musichetta wakes up with someone else apart from her two boys, in her bed, and casually hides her head in her pillow and throws an arm around Bossuet, falling fast asleep again as if everything is completely normal.

 

Joly’s eyes grow wide with fear when he inspects the thermometer and shoves Grantaire back in bed, throwing a blanket over his body. Grantaire already feels way too tired to cope with all that, but he is amused at the same time when Joly produces a pocket light from some drawer and demands that he opens his mouth and says “ah”. Grantaire has no choice but to obey, and he starts getting annoyed at Joly’s terrified eyes as he examines his throat. “So, am I going to die today?” he asks sarcastically when Joly gets up.

 

“Hush, my friend, don’t you say such things,” Joly’s whispers are mournful and a sympathetic hand strokes his hair. “I know that your illness is making you feel quite horrible, but I promise that we will get through this together, I’m here and I promise to help you and stand by your side…”

 

Grantaire resists the urge to laugh until his ribs ache, firstly because he still can’t breathe and his migraine is killing him, and secondly because he is touched at the fact that, despite his hysterics, his friend manages to provide him with some medicine which quickly relieves his nose and makes him sleepy.

 

His eyelids soon become heavy and he falls back on the pillows. With Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, it is always warm and there are always arms around him, even though he doesn’t always know who they belong to. There are Musichetta’s awfully burnt pancakes in the morning, and her touchy screams when she realizes that they have been secretly feeding them to cat (in which Joly is allergic) instead of eating them. There is Bossuet who always wakes up after falling from bed with a loud noise, making Joly certain he’s gotten a severe head injury. And then there is Joly who takes his blanket and moves to sleep on the floor, protecting himself from the diseases his friends carry.

 

The nights he spends with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are full of thermometers, hysterical screams, fights and hissing cats (it’s usually Bossuet who accidentally sits on its tail, and then gets fatal bleeding from her scratching, or so Joly thinks). But they are warm as well, and there is medication to help him fall sleep. And that’s enough for now.


	4. Sweaters, soap and chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Combeferre makes him feel guilty and ashamed. But he can sleep, and for once again, that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for having taken so long to update, but now exams are over and I'm back! I'm also sorry if that's slightly depressing, but it just had to be written.  
> If you have read my other story, I see a red door and I want it painted black, you might notice that some parts are exactly the same, the concept just fitted so much in this story that I had to change it a little bit and add it as a chapter here as well.  
> Thank you so much for reading and for being so kind!

There are some nights when it’s almost like he’s asleep but he isn’t and it’s awful. It’s almost like he’s asleep because these are they nights when he feels totally numb, in the complete absence of his usual throbbing head and cynical misery and hangover. These nights are different. They usually occur after some drinking as well, but it’s not quite the same. Numbness is more painful than an actual headache, and there’s nothing else he can do than curling up in his bed, without eating or showering or doing anything for that matter, wishing he could sleep in order to simply forget and stop thinking about everything that has brought him in the present state, but he simply always failing. And he wishes there would be something for him to do, to try for, instead of lying in bed, but there isn’t anything he can try for, anything he can succeed in, not even his art, because even that seems to fail him at those nights.

 

And they don’t know. He wishes they don’t know and he’s lucky enough because they don’t. Sometimes Éponine, as well as Feuilly, has her own problems to deal with, some of which might or might not be much more important than Pontmercy’s very existence. Bahorel and Bossuet are sure he’s just dozed off on Playboy, his mouth hanging open and drooling pathetically on the pillow, after getting drunk. Jehan, however sensitive he might be, he notices very little, being lost in a haze of love and poetry and pantless karaoke nights with Courfeyrac. They can’t imagine what’s going on in his room or in his head.

 

Well, the truth is, he can’t hide from everyone that easily. There is someone who’ll always know. Grantaire has no idea how the goddamn man ends up knocking the door of his room at the time he’d least wish to see anyone and at the time he’s sure he wouldn’t _have_ to see anyone. Combeferre always knows.

 

When his bespectacled friend enters the room, Grantaire is already kneeled over the toilet, throwing up violently. Combeferre kneels next to him and throws an arm around him, as his other hand brushes the damp curls off his forehead. The man is covered in cold sweat and Combeferre doesn’t even want to think what he might have drunk. After Grantaire finishes, they both curl up on the cold bathroom floor, Combeferre brings a wet towel and cleans his face, then throws his arms around him and strokes his back in soothing, circular motions. “Hey,” he says softly.

 

“What’ve you been thinking?” asks Grantaire miserably in a hoarse, so different from his usual sarcastic tone, “I’m a disgusting mess.”

 

“Come,” says Combeferre, “let’s get you to bed.”

 

Grantaire couldn’t think of a better place to be, after all it’s the place he has so cruelly abandoned in order to empty the contents of his stomach. He allows Combeferre to help him and get up and he’s very lucky to have his support in making a few steps to his room, as he blacks out for a moment there, his head light and his body shaking dangerously.

 

When he falls in bed he knows that he has consumed all the energy which was left to him, and under no circumstances is he planning to get up again, for a long time. Combeferre tucks him under the covers and pulls them over his shoulders. Grantaire can’t feel any more thankful, he is still shivering violently and the world feels so cold. The medical student kneels on the floor beside him and gently strokes the tangled locks on his forehead. “I have painkillers. Do you need some?”

 

Unfortunately nothing hurts, even the throbbing in his head is dull and he makes a negative noise. “Go,” he mumbles, “I don’t want you to see me when I’m fucked up.”

 

“You aren’t fucked up.” He is. “There is nothing wrong with you having a bad day. I know that you’d prefer being alone, but please let me stay.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t answer, and after a while Combeferre has climbed on the bed, has thrown an arm around his body and pulled him closer. It is true that Grantaire only wishes to be left alone in the beginning, but then Combeferre is rubbing his shoulders softly and the warmth of the other man’s pressed against his own back at least helps with the cold. “You aren’t hungry, are you?” asks Combeferre softly and brings Grantaire back to reality, he had almost dozed off again. He replies that he isn’t. “I’ve brought donuts if you want some later, chocolate always helps.”

 

“It’s fuckin’ two AM. Who eats _donuts_ after midnight?”

 

Combeferre shrugs his shoulders. “I do. I fail to notice anything wrong with consuming some chocolate every now and then, when I’m feeling down.”

 

Grantaire sighs because Combeferre _is_ something, even though those two have never been highly close to each other.

 

In fact Combeferre is the one who manages to gain Grantaire’s bigger respect, and the guide of the group has always shown more tolerance than the leader, Enjolras. It’s just that they don’t have much in common, not many things to talk about, they disagree in fundamental ideas and principles. But they do care for each other, and Combeferre, having spent so many hours in hospitals, sharing people’s pain and problems is the one who sees the weaknesses in the man, and goes further than his cynical behaviour and horrible habits. He’s always there when Grantaire needs someone to hold his hair back in order to empty his system in the toilet from the poison he keeps filling it, he’s there when Grantaire regrets it and feels bad, at least when he knows he’s needed. He never asks many questions, he never frets or gives lectures, and most importantly, he never says “told you so.” Grantaire values that very much, and even though he never wants to accept company in the beginning, these thankfully rare occasions have become a habit, and remain a secret between them, a secret they forget and never discuss afterwards.

 

They remain still for a while, with no sound but their slow, steady breathing. As he’s holding him, Combeferre can see the way Grantaire’s open icy blue eyes are fixed on the opposite wall, and he swears he hasn’t seen them so empty before. It scares him and admittedly it breaks his heart. He wishes that he could do anything more effective, but in all honest there aren’t more things to be done for the time being.

 

“I’m a disgusting mess,” Grantaire mutters suddenly.

 

Combeferre shrugs. “Truth is, you could use a shower. Your state of personal hygiene isn’t the ideal one to make you feel better.”

 

“Screw you,” snorts Grantaire, and Combeferre can do nothing but smile. “If I stink just go back to your dorm, I promise I won’t jump off the window. I’m not a teenage emo, you know.”

 

Combeferre nods seriously. “That you most definitely are not. You lack the fringe.”

 

There is silence for a while. Then Grantaire lets a small whimper. “I’ve fucked it up, haven’t I?”

 

“Let’s say that what you weren’t exactly yourself at today’s meeting.”

 

“Oh no, my dear Guide. I was exactly my fuckin’ self. Disgusting and filthy and pissed drunk as always.”

 

“I am certain you didn’t mean what you said to Enjolras.”

 

Grantaire flinches at the sound of the name. “Of course I did.” He bites his lip until he tastes blood, “well, maybe not all of it.”

 

“Drinking isn’t always going to help, R.”

 

“And what do you think that’ll help?”

 

“What would make you feel better right now?”

 

“Dunno. If you killed me, I suppose?”

 

Combeferre acts as if he’s giving it some thought. “I don’t think so,” he says finally, “killing your friends to help them get over their problems is quite frowned upon in modern societies.”

 

“Ha,” snorts Grantaire, “very funny.”

 

“It is going to be alright.”

 

“It fuckin’ isn’t.”

 

“Enjolras looked shaken after your… conversation.”

 

“Enjolras can go screw himself.”

 

“Highly unlikely, if you want my opinion.”

 

“I will stay in my bed for eternity.”

 

“Particularly inconvenient. You’ll need to use the toilet at some point.”

 

“He hates me.”

 

“He doesn’t,” Combeferre forces Grantaire to turn around and look at him with his empty, blue eyes. “Listen, Grantaire. You both exchanged some harsh words tonight. He was upset after you drunkenly left, believe it or not. No, he hasn’t told us anything, you know him as much as I do, he’d never let anything show. He still doesn’t seem to regret anything.” Grantaire shuts his eyes painfully; Combeferre feels his muscles tensing against him. “But Enjolras has a tendency to passionately give faith, as much as you have a tendency to passionately deny it. He _is_ furious, but he believes in you. In the wrong way, but he does. He believes you have betrayed him in every way possible, that’s true, he believes you never had the intention of being of any help, he is certain you only need to mock us, but he believes in you, in his own, wrong way. Enjolras is stubborn R, but so are you.”

 

Grantaire opens his eyes. “Are you asking me to go and fuckin’ apologize? Say how deeply _sorry_ I feel, and then start attending your meetings again, pretending I care for anything, or rather showing how much I don’t?”

 

Combeferre shakes his head. “No. I’m asking you to let it be for the time being. And to trust me, trust that it’s going to be alright when the time comes.”

 

Grantaire sits up on his bed and turns around to face Combeferre, who gives a small smile. “Whatever it is, it will get better.”

 

“How do I know?” asks Grantaire in a tired voice, his blue eyes fixed on the sheets.

 

“You can only trust me. It will get better. Not today, but it will.”

 

Grantaire slowly raises his eyes, and they meet with Combeferre’s. There is a small smile in them. Grantaire can’t smile yet, but his heart feels warm. He can’t say _thank you_ yet, but Combeferre knows. Their fingers get tangled together and after a while, they fall asleep.

 

The few nights he spends with Combeferre are full of comforting arms and soft jumpers which smell of soap and old books. They are full of chocolate and occasional throwing up. Sometimes Combeferre makes him feel guilty and ashamed. But he can sleep, and for once again, that’s enough.

 

It will get better. Not today, but it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has a sleepover. Yeah, you're right. That was a spoiler.


	5. Warm breaths and red sweatshirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they realize what’s happening they struggle to quickly get off each other, but it’s too late. Éponine and Courfeyrac have already taken a few snapshots which might or might not become blackmailing material in the future.

Their last meeting before Christmas finds them away from campus and in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s place, and after it finishes they all realize that it has been snowing for so long that it’s almost impossible for them to return to their apartments. Marius immediately freaks out and starts rambling about storms, which obliges Cosette to use her best soothing voice to comfort him. Jehan looks utterly pleased and rushes upstairs, to his boyfriend’s room, in order to search for mismatching pyjamas. Combeferre frowns at the window and quietly retreats to his favourite armchair with a book on his lap. As for Joly, he is convinced that he has already caught a cold even from looking at the snowy streets, and that he will probably die if he gets out of the house. Musichetta just rolls her eyes, while Grantaire and Bahorel search for a booze, and Bossuet with Éponine find the opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and explore the contents of the fridge. However, it is Feuilly and Enjolras, who both wear their coats and walk to the door that attract Courfeyrac’s attention.

 

“Nice try,” he says, while grabbing both their hoods. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

 

Enjolras stares at him incredulously. “Home, of course. Where else?”

 

Combeferre notices and gets up, throwing a disapproving glance at his best friend. “I don’t think so, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras has started looking impatient. “Well, that’s a pity, because I’m leaving. I have a speech to prepare.”

 

“The actual pity is that the speech will have to wait. You’re not going out in that weather. There is no way for you to arrive home safely.” Combeferre gives a look at his two friends behind his spectacles, that reveals they will not have the chance to argue. He turns to Feuilly. “And why do _you_ want to leave?”

 

Feuilly flushes. “I don’t want to become a burden. Plus I had promised to help with the Christmas meal for the poor tomorrow morning.”

 

Combeferre stares at his kind friend admiringly. “You never become a burden. But you’ll probably have an accident or catch a bad cold if you go out now. You can go tomorrow, if the snow has melted.”

 

Feuilly can’t help but agree, but Enjolras still doesn’t look convinced. “And what exactly do you suggest we do, o wise one?”

 

Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras into a bear hug and ruffles his blond locks. “Stay here, of course!”

 

Combeferre is smiling fatherly, as he drops his book on the armchair. “I’m heading to the kitchen to prepare some hot chocolate for all of us.”

 

“This is ridiculous…”

 

“This is awesome!”

 

“You are Courfeyrac. Even a Friends marathon seems awesome to you.”

 

However, Feuilly has already taken his coat off and is heading to the kitchen, therefore Enjolras has to finally accept his fate.

 

“Come on, fearless leader!” Courfeyrac nudges him on the rib, “there is space for us all in the living room, and we have a couple of sleeping bags upstairs. Your poor dear friends need to feel loved every now and then!”

 

Enjolras sighs, as his eyes take glimpse of Grantaire and Bahorel who have already begun a drinking contest. “I hope this ends soon.”

 

After a while, Courfeyrac and Jehan have brought three sleeping bags and numerous blankets and pillows. They are kneeled on a huge pillow, both in huge ugly knitted sweaters and Jehan is reading British poetry aloud while Courfeyrac nuzzles in his neck and places kisses all over his face, causing the romantic to blush violently. Jehan is in a purple pair of pyjama bottoms and Courfeyrac in his boxers, much to Marius and Cosette’s discomfort. The aforementioned lovebirds are wrapped around each other on a big armchair, both in Combeferre’s warm jumpers, as for Éponine she is in a huge t-shirt that belongs to Courfeyrac. Bossuet and Musichetta are already wrapped in blankets, having occupied one couch, comforting Joly who sneezes uncontrollably in a tissue. Feuilly is cooking in the kitchen something which smells spectacular, and when Bossuet dares to exclaim how contented he is to have a proper, non burnt meal in what seems like days, he is ready to receive Musichetta’s wrath.

Combeferre is an excellent host. He helps Feuilly with his cooking and prepares hot chocolate for all of them. Éponine has already finished half the ice cream she found in the fridge and finds love in the face of Combeferre’s hot chocolate. When Combeferre sits next to her, with his pale blue turtleneck and his interested nodding even when she speaks nonsense, she almost looks as she doesn't really care for Cosette and Marius' violent cuddling anymore, at least not that much.

 

As for Enjolras, he takes a seat by the fire, clearly annoyed by the noise, and starts typing frantically on Combeferre’s laptop. Grantaire, who has already drunk a beer or two with Bahorel, finds it particularly hard to take his eyes away from the man, the gold locks which shine from the light of the fireplace, the slight frown on the beautiful face while he concentrates on his work, the way he’ll occasionally bite his lower lip while he thinks… They haven’t exchanged more than a few cold words since the day Grantaire got drunk and laughed at their cause and the cynic has finally accepted the fact that he isn’t going to receive anything but pity and disgust from the leader of their organization. Not that he’d deserve anything more in first place…

 

There is a Christmas tree near the fireplace, ridiculously decorated (Grantaire knows that the ugly golden elves are entirely Courfeyrac and Jehan’s fault), and the living room is much warmer and cosier than his own messy, paint stained apartment. Being a cynic himself, he never found much of a point in Christmas celebrations, but he had to admit that the whole picture, together with the noise from his friends’ laughter and discussions and with the snow outside the window, was complementing Enjolras’ lonely figure in the corner perfectly, and if he had had a little more to drink, he is sure that he would end up sighing dreamily, making an utter fool of himself.

 

They all curl on the floor in the blankets and eat Feuilly and Combeferre’s tasty food, while Courfeyrac sings Christmas songs terribly out of tune. Bahorel opens a bottle of champagne and Grantaire gladly accepts his glass. He needs to stop thinking, he needs to stop wondering how that red sweatshirt would feel against his palm, how that defined jaw would taste against his lips, how these gold locks would look between his fingers. He needs to forget. He needs to lose any connection with reality.

 

Not much time passes until they are all full with food and extremely tired to be occupied with a game of Truth or Dare, even though Bahorel and Courfeyrac insist. Bossuet is already snoring, curled in the same sofa with Joly and Musichetta, Marius’ head has fallen on Cosette’s lap and he drools while he sleeps, Feuilly wraps himself in a sleeping bag and Courfeyrac with Jehan fall asleep in a ridiculous self-made nest of pillows, colorful quilts and patchwork blankets under the Christmas tree, after they finish a rather heated makeout session under a mistletoe Courfeyrac has strategically placed in the room. It doesn’t take long for Bahorel to doze off lying on the floor on his stomach, his arms spread around him and his mouth hanging open. Combeferre is elegantly asleep, sitting on the sofa, with Éponine’s head resting on his shoulder. Grantaire is certain that will be quite awkward for the both of them when they wake up.

 

For once again he simply can’t fall asleep. He kneels on the floor and starts sketching absent mindedly, his head already spinning slightly from the drinks he’s had. It’s nice and peaceful. Usually silence makes him feel bitter and cold, but this silence isn’t exactly _quiet,_ not with all the turning and tossing and breathing and snoring of his friends. It’s warm and it’s lovely, what with the lights from the kitsch Christmas tree he is sure Combeferre disapproves of, the crackling of the fire and a mug of unfinished now cold chocolate, -enhanced with a few drops whiskey- next to him.

 

He is so lost into his sketching that he does not realize the warm breath brushing on the back of his neck until he hears the quiet voice of the only man who is awake, apart from him. “I didn’t know you draw.”

 

He almost jumps up and his heart starts racing madly when he notices Enjolras kneeling beside him, their faces only inches apart. He leans forward. “Can I have a look?”

 

Grantaire chuckles sarcastically. “I’m not exactly certain whether this crap will be of any interest to you.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t move. He only offers his hand. “Let me see,” he says in a soft voice, which is entirely different from the one he used the last time they spoke.

 

Grantaire hesitates for a while. _Sod it_ , he thinks then, and hands Enjolras the notepad.

 

The blond man examines it with an inexplicable expression, and while Grantaire’s heart pounds in his ears, he can’t help feeling extremely thankful that, for a change, he had been drawing a hyper realistic mass of tangled bodies instead the passionate revolutionary himself.

 

“It’s very good,” mutters Enjolras, “you could try to draw some pamphlets for our organization.”

 

Grantaire forgets how to breathe, but his sarcastic tone doesn’t abandon him. “Honestly, Enjolras? Are you asking my help?”

 

Enjolras looks hostile again. “You’re drunk again,” he mutters. “I should know better  than to ask for your help. You would capable of such big things, Grantaire, if only you believed.”

 

"You are the one who owes the gift of faith."

 

"And I am such a fool to believe in you."

 

Grantaire stares at the floor for a while, his heart ready to explode from his chest, then raises his blue eyes. “Let me think about it. I don’t offer my services unless there’s a fairly good reason for me to do so, Apollo.”

 

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras’ voice comes out softer than he intended it to. Their eyes lock for a breathless minute which feels like eternity. “I should… I should go to sleep,” says Enjolras finally.

 

Grantaire clears his throat. “Sure, sweet dreams with Patria, Apollo, and try to keep them PG rated.”

 

The death glare he receives and the whole conversation is enough to cause Grantaire to drink a whole bottle of alcohol after Enjolras lies on the only remaining empty couch and he continues his drawing until he doesn’t realize what he’s doing anymore.

 

Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it is the fact that no other place for him is free to lie down, but he ends up on the very couch Enjolras is sleeping in, and he thinks the night which passes with him fading in and out of consciousness is pure heaven, what with the sound of the fire and the warmth of the other body against his own.

 

When he finally opens his eyes in the morning, he is unable to believe to whom that breath which causes the hair on the nape of his neck to stand up belongs to. He is certain that he’s dreaming. It is impossible that Enjolras, the man made of marble likes to bloody _cuddle_ , and has an arm around his chest. He completely freaks out when he notices the man stirring against him, and he is sure that his heart which is beating madly under Enjolras’ arm will give everything away.

 

When they realize what’s happening they struggle to quickly get off each other, but it’s too late. Éponine and Courfeyrac have already taken a few snapshots which might or might not become blackmailing material in the future.

 

With Enjolras he doesn’t dare wake up from the dream he thinks he’s having, a dream of red sweatshirts, gold locks, warm breath, and an arm around his chest. With Enjolras he can sleep, because such things happen only in dreams, and that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this ridiculous piece of fluff until the end, you are so amazing and you can have snuggly Enjolras in his red sweatshirt for a night! (I wouldn't dare suggest a revolutionary onesie).


End file.
